


In Our Bedroom After the War

by archaicGambit, PthaloGreen



Series: AlphaRose-Collected Drabble/Stories [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Comedy, Dave has a twitter, F/M, Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Social Media, Talking about queerness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archaicGambit/pseuds/archaicGambit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PthaloGreen/pseuds/PthaloGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk and Roxy try to figure out who their ancestors are by investigating their social media imprints and the relics they left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Television Man

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody, this is Alpha!Dave<3Alpha!Rose's 2014 collab round entry. We placed 3rd overall in the collab round, with a total of 36 votes over two polls (we won the first poll.)
> 
> Artwork was done by evi/forgetful-and-forgettable on tumblr.com She is an incredible artist. Really. And great to work with. She also helped edit.
> 
> I did a lot of the writing for this- sections done by other authors will be marked.
> 
> The song title is based off a song by the band Stars that I think goes with the post-scratch Strilonde story REALLY well. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-K05oBku10

  


  
timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TT: Hey, Roxy.

TG: rolal reporting for duty

TG: whats the sitch mr strider

TT: Okay, well I was thinking about my bro and stuff.

TT: Outside of those videos he left.

TT: I really don’t know anything about him.

TG: u mean the birthday ones that u binged on last year

TG: the ones where u got ~the talk~ 4 years ahead of schedule

TG: those videos

TT: Yes, those videos.

TT: Although I also have all of his movies, and those basically did the trick.

TT: You could let a guy finish, Roxy.

TG: jeez dont get ur panties in a twist

TT: Anyways, I went down into the city.

TT: And I saw one of the posters for his films and I just figured.

TT: I think it’s time we knew more about our parents.

TT: My bro and your mom, that is.

TT: I think I found his [twitter account?](http://imgur.com/a/SmcUb)

TG: twitter????

TT: Its like a website where you just post all your random thoughts but they can’t be more than two sentences.

TG: umm okay

TG: sounds dumb to me but whatevs

TG: i can dig it

TG: i mean ive never even GOOGLED my mom because i assumed itd come up with bs crockercorp propoganda

TG: u know what imma try it

TG: but on this crappy laptop i found in the other day

TG: not risking batterwitch viruses on my bb  


timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  



	2. There's no one there, but at least the war is over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the bit Post-Scratch Jade's in if you're looking for that.

  
  
  
  
  


 Jade English, born in 1940, has been a singular figure in shaping our current society. She is the former CEO and founder of Skaianet, which surpassed rivals Microsoft, & Apple when it moved to digital reality sylladexes. Her success has inspired a new generation of women to go into STEM fields, as well as other women hoping to achieve greatness, such as Rose Lalonde, author of the prize-winning Complacency of the Learned.

 

Ecstatic at the chance to meet her role model, Rose Lalonde helped us set up something of a dual interview, however, we didn’t want to pull the focus as much as be witness to what we knew would be a fascinating meeting- Lalonde and English did not disappoint.

 

We gave the ladies a mix of questions from our readers and our editors, with 45 seconds to discuss each question.

 

Question 1: Who would win in an arm wrestling match?

RL: Oh god, please don’t break my arm.

JE: I like you.

RL: Next question.

 

Question 2: How do you feel about the way our new tech is affecting the environment?

 

RL: I definitely think big companies need to be more environmentally conscious.

JE: That’s kind of hypocritical.

RL: What?

JE: Aren’t you dating Mr. JPEG artifacts?

RL: I… um, I’m quite sure they float off into space eventually.

JE: You know that satellite pollution and space debris is a big problem?

RL: Of course, of course. Synthesized reality and all this intraphysical-digital stuff, it’s very new territory, and ALL of us need to deal with it in a more eco way. Including people I may be associated with.

JE: Mhmmm.

RL: Don’t look at me like that.

 

Question 3: Cats or dogs?

Instantaneously- RL: Cats! JE: Dogs!

Ms. English frowned, and there was a long pause.

 

Question 4: What helps you get ideas?

RL: God, that’s so generic.

JE: I’m always investigating a question. I use that as a nexus.

RL: That’s not fair. I have to make up things on my own from scratch.

JE: You should go into science then.

RL: Maybe I will.

JE: Young lady, did you just wink at me?

RL Maybe I did.

JE: Next.

 

Question 5: Who has been your biggest Role Model?

RL: Well um, I was really eager for people in the world to look up to as a child, I didn’t really have a family so it was all people I read about. JRR Tolkien, Tamora Pierce, Captain Catherine Janeway from Star Trek, and erm... you too, actually, for a large part.

JE: Wow that’s so sweet.

JE: You’re going to make an old woman cry.

RL: Oh no, I’m sorry, I’ll take it back.

JE: You’re taking it back now? Now I’m really going to cry. Why are you taking back the nice thing you said about me?

RL: I was going to retract it to prevent your distress.

JE: I was joking.

RL: I know. It’s alright.

JE: Just making sure you knew.

RL: I knew!

JE: Are you sure?

RL: I knew! I’m very funny, actually. I have a deep sense of intuition when it comes to humor.

JE: Mhmmmmm.

RL: Stop Mhming me! It’s distracting and preventing me from reaching my full comedic potential. I won’t level up in time for the final boss.

JE: What?

RL: What you don’t know is that if we don’t answer these correctly, we’ll die in this room.

JE: At least they gave us cookies!

RL: Those are for us?

JE: The next question’s already up. You ready partner?

RL: Hit me.

At this time, Ms. English punched Ms. Lalonde’s shoulder.

RL: Ow! Not literally. It’s a turn of speech. I think that might leave a bruise.

 

Question 6: If you had to date someone of the same gender, who would it be?

RL: [snickers] If I had to.

JE: Hmm? I didn’t know you were gay. What’s with that Strider fellow then?

RL: Bisexual. I keep having to remind people. I’ve dated more women than men, actually.

JE: Well then if I had to, Ms. Lalonde would probably be at the top of my list. You look very nice tonight, dear!

RL: That’s lovely of you to say. But whoa, I didn’t know you were a cougar.

JE: When you get over 50, you stop caring about a lot of things. Sex, work, life, all of it felt easier for me. Like, been there, done that. If I want something, I ask for it!

RL: I can respect that, but you’re still a cougar. I’m approximately what, 30 years younger than you?

JE: Whatever you say, you whippersnapper.

RL: Did you genuinely just say “whippersnapper”? [laughs]

 

Question 7: What’s your ideal man?

Instantaneously- JE: Didn’t we just have a relationship-y question? RL: Dead.

JE: What?

RL: It was the first thing that came to mind.

JE: Your ideal man is a dead man?

RL: I rather fancied William Shakespeare, when I was younger, and as a matter-of-fact, he’s dead. Did you know that many of his biographers speculate that he was also probably bisexual?

RL: You probably knew him in person; what are your thoughts?

JE: We are not going into old people jokes, you millenial.

RL: Don’t say millennial like it’s a dirty word.

JE: Young people need to have some respect for their elders! I’ll say whatever I want, whenever I want!

RL: I’ll accept my defeat this time. [laughs] Next question?

 

Question 8: Any phrases or expressions you’ve noticed yourselves use excessively?

RL: Hm, I don’t think I’m uniquely attached to any particular phrase. Strider and I tend to go into extended metaphors frequently but nothing’s coming off the top of my head.

JE: Mhmm

RL: Was that your answer, or just you musing on mine?

JE: I was thinking!

RL: You’ve said “mhm” an awful lot.

JE: It helps me think.

 

Question 9: I’m a young woman going into a male dominated business-place. Any advice?

JE: I can’t do this one in 45 seconds. Look- you’ve got to be calculated. You have to be calculating all the time when you can lean in and stand up, when it’s best to stand back and smile sweetly, because it might hurt your job. I did that for the first 15 years of my career. It’s fucking exhausting.

RL: Wait, I don’t think we’re supposed to be swearing.

JE: Sorry, princess!

JE: This was my life. I broke the glass ceiling for you.

 

Question 10: 3 things you would bring on a deserted island?

JE: [Laughs]

RL: What?

JE: Nothing, just. I live on an island.

RL: So you’re probably well-versed in the given scenario.

JE: Satellite phone, gun, dog.

RL: If possible, I would bring a wand to spirit myself away as soon as possible. I hate the heat.

JE: It must be hard for you to sit next to me then.

RL: Hm?

JE: Because I’m so hot.

RL: That is not something I thought I’d ever hear a woman over 60 say to me.

  
~Watch the full interview at our youtube page, youtube.com/channel/timesonline


	3. Lift your head and look out the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter by PthaloGreen/FreudianBullshit on tumblr. I love her writing and we've collaborated before. Her language seems really natural and emotional to me so if you like the strilondes or you like her style at all go check out her other writing ASAP.

It’s behind a stack of old papers when you find it, which is, incidentally, how you find it. Sifting through firewalls and old websites to find what you sought was starting to take its toll on your eyes and what had begun as a well-planned, pragmatic approach to searching the entire internet piece by piece was quickly devolving into a frantic scramble in the attic for anything remotely related to your cause. The papers themselves were apparently useless but you were fast realising by now that despite his organized approach to it, your brother had been nothing if not a devoted hoarder. As interesting as the sheets (shiny with print untainted by the sun for so many years, covered in various numbers and pictures of food) were to a boy whose only concepts of a world so densely populated that you could actually get other people to bring food to your house if you called them lived exclusively in the past tense, what caught your attention was the perfectly ordinary cardboard box nestled into the corner behind them, hidden from plain sight.  
  


Boxes in general are universal objects of curiosity. What is inside that small vessel? We just don’t know. You just don’t know. That’s kind of not the point, though. The point with this specific box was that it was entirely unremarkable in every conceivable way. No writing on it, no mystery to solve. Plain brown cardboard folded to make six sides, about the same size as your head, completely ordinary.  
  


And that was absolutely the problem with it.  
  


There is nothing in your house that is ‘normal’. Your refrigerator has a special shelf to make sure the swords don’t fall out for Christ’s sake, even the porn he left was weird (even by your standards). It doesn’t fit, this tiny box surrounded by all of Dave’s old strange crap. As if to further prove your point, temptation to open it there and then is momentarily put on hold as you feel the tingling sensation of eyes burning into the back of your head and turn to see a disgustingly discoloured dead-something peering at you eerily from one of the many wet specimen jars he kept. Nice.

 

*

 

The box is full of floppy disks. Your immediate reaction is to laugh. You wonder if this is how archaeologists felt finding the primitive sex-toys of cave-men – this is just so impractical. For one, they can’t even hold that much data (which is probably why there are so many of these goddamn things, there had to be about 30 in there at least) and secondly they were just so easy to snap-

With a resounding crack, the disk you were idly toying with breaks in your hands.

Oh shit. Well, that’s one less file to go through.   
  


It occurs to you that you should probably tell Roxy about this – it could potentially be a big deal. Then again, it could also be nothing and you’d hate to be the one to dash her hopes. The plan of action is quickly devised in your mind: if these disks aren’t blank (and you’re going to check them all to make sure), you’re going to go through all of them. Any and all information will be checked and if you’re efficient and only take pee-breaks when scheduled, you can probably finish this by 3am at the latest. A brief search of a pile of electrical junk you’d assembled for spare parts, previously considering it useless, provides you with 3 functioning USB floppy-readers and you figure that should be enough to get you through. Cracking your knuckles and settling down in front of your computer, you boot up the first three. Let’s fucking do this.

 

*

 

Three hours later, you have learned the following information from your boxed collection:

·         Over half of the disks are empty, never been used.

·         Jack shit.

 

Like seriously, what the fuck? From what you’ve found so far, with half of the non-blank disks to go, this collection of data is completely useless. Each of your good disks so far has contained nothing but a single Microsoft Word document (which is weird because you always pinned him for a Mac kind of guy) containing a text box with some kind of completely dumb statement in it. Your personal favourites so far have been:

 

 

You’re surprised at just how obnoxiously awful his typing is. This program has autocorrect but it’s almost as if he went back and consciously chose to delete every grammatical correction the computer made just to be difficult. Another thing is the borders – he’s utilised pretty much every text box border you can think of. It’s like the worlds ugliest, most pointless diary written by a man who likes doing things purely because he can. Which is fitting, you suppose, considering what little else you know about him.  
  


Going through the files takes longer than anticipated, partially due to how frustrated it makes you. You know if you stop halfway through that on the other half of the disks there is going to be something valuable, useful – that’s just the way the world works. As a result your entire day is spent on reading the bullshit of a man you never even met as he rambles aimlessly about sea world and piñatas and absinthe and pretty much every damn thing under the sun that you’re not looking for. Handing the disks to Sawtooth and watching him snap them into tiny pieces for you when you’re finished with them becomes the highlight of each new disk until eventually, and no more clued-up than when you started, all that’s left of what you started with is an empty cardboard box and a pile of metallic shrapnel. You reward yourself for your efforts with a nap, despite it only being early afternoon – a seemingly adequate reward in terms of stupidity and pointlessness for the waste of time you just subjected yourself to.

 

*

 

The moon greets you when you wake up, an unpleasant reminder that sleeping in the daytime only leads to being awake in the night for you. There’s a gentle electrical hum in the air, slightly too forceful to be the one you’ve grown to consider your lullaby which means that you didn’t put your computer to sleep before you took your post-bullshit nap. With your eyes still hazy from sleep it looks like the monitor is glowing gently with the contents of the final floppy, the various wires and cables twinkling under the desk from where they are plugged in. Every so often, one of the blinking lights will catch your pile of discarded floppy disks and it flickers on the metal as if tiny flames were dancing in the heart of all that crap. Perhaps ejecting the one still in your machine and snapping it yourself will give you some kind of closure. Begrudgingly, you slide out of bed and trudge towards your machine, sinking into your chair and tapping the sleep key without looking at the keyboard.

You miss.

The little black line that signifies that there’s still space for you to type flashes a line down from where it was before. You must have pressed enter instead. Glancing down at the keyboard, you look firstly at your finger and secondly at the enter key. Finally, you look at the large distance between the two. Your finger is nowhere near that key, but it is near the downwards arrow key.

Frowning, you tap it again.

The little black line follows, blinking at you from the screen. Your brows furrow, and you try again. Surely enough, the line follows you down as many times as you tap the key, which suggests that, despite the absence of a side scrollbar or a page count on screen, someone before you had gone to town on their enter-key pressing. Stomach churning with a sense of unease, you hold the key down until you find that it leads you to a full page of text on the document about 12 pages down.

The usual structuring is gone, no red text and no effort to remove the default formatting, but you know it’s him. No one else would start their writing that way.

 

_Shit._

_Like that’s the only way I can even express it it’s just shit its shit and I can’t even_

_God this is such a shitstorm and I can’t even begin to think about how to work this out because I don’t think I’ve ever been this terrified in my life of one singular person but she’s terrifying not just in terms of what she is but what she could do to me_

 

You pause to consider what the hell he’s talking about. Brain still foggy from sleep, it takes you a moment to realise it’s probably the Batterwitch before reading a couple of lines down and allowing that theory to ollie the fuck outie because ohhhh shit did you ever get the wrong end of the stick.

 

_Shes everything god how corny is that_

And that’s terrifying I thought I was all good on the people front and then suddenly there she is all stoic and suave and kind of angry and firstly I think I can handle it but right now the only idea scarier than the one that she might never go away is the thought that she could leave tomorrow without looking back and I’d still have all these dents she’s left in my fucking head and no way to bang them back out

_I hate her she’s awful_

_She’s pretentious and too wordy and she looks better in a suit than me and_

_Crap_

_Who am I even kidding_   
_25light413_

You feel your stomach lurch.

 

_I love her_

_I fucking love her_

_And we’re probably going to die chasing these ghosts she keeps finding and she’s never going to know that in all the stupid crazy things I’ve done and all the places I’ve been I never found anything that I liked more than her_

_Not even stuffed crust_

 

 

It takes a minute for you to swallow the lump in your throat, shaking hand lingering over the pesterchum icon in the corner of your screen as you consider sharing the document. The empty box in the corner looks darker, deeper, for the lack of light in the room and the lights flash against your pile of metal debris accusingly. You consider the effort he went through to hide it and you wonder why a person who was seemingly so confident would go to such lengths to conceal their feelings. You were never all that great at feelings yourself, but you kind of grew up alone in the middle of the sea – you had an excuse. Quietly, you eject the disk and hold it with both hands, contemplating your options for a few minutes before bringing your hands down sharply, snapping the disk in two and tossing it onto the pile with the others.  
  
  


When Roxy asks if you’ve made any progress, you pause for a moment before telling her no, eyeing the pile of broken discs with a quiet, lingering guilt before excusing yourself.

You spend the rest of the day by your windowsill, tossing the fragments of hundreds of loveletters that were never meant to be read out into the sea and watching them fall like confetti into the ocean below. Whilst they fall you remind yourself that what you don’t know can’t hurt you, what Roxy doesn’t know can’t hurt her, and consider the idea that perhaps some threads are best left un-pulled, despite knowing that sooner or later you would have to pull them anyway.


	4. Darkness Filled with Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This dirk/roxy conversation was written by forgetful-and-forgettable on tumblr.
> 
> This is kinda the intro to a long Rose bit that I'm super proud of.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

  
  


TG: shoutout to di stri

TG: am just about to head off into dark scary unknown

TG: where me and my valiant band of carapace friends will brave through

TG: well

TG: probs a lot of dust but perhaps some weird mutant evildoers

TG: maybe theres a horrible eldritch being that’ll kill us all

TG: will you cry for me if i die

TT: Rolal, stop being so melodramatic about your basement.

TG: rude

TG: and this is all under ur orders 2

TT: I only asked you if you could find anything else about our genetic ancestors.

TT: And then I suggested you look in your basement, since you told me you’ve never actually took a step in there ever since you were like six and fell down the steps accidentally and gave yourself a panic attack.  
TT: I mean, if you don't want to it's fine.

TG: yea yea

TG: i fell prey to the stairs

TG: them slippery steps

TT: Those dastardly bastards.

TG: haha

TG: but anyway if i have to face my WORST FEAR EVUR

TG: you have to do the same

TG: ur gonna have to toss the puppet

TT: Wait, what?

TT: Lil Cal’s the shit.

TG: hes soooooo creepy

TT: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

TG: oh fine

TG: wasnt really expecting anything anyway

TG: im gonna head down now

TT: Good luck

TG: u know me dirky

TG: i make my own luck

TG: *wonk*

 

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

 

TT: ...

TT: I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rolal.

 

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  
  


   
  



	5. when you went away, you were just a kid

Dearest Roxy,

I fear that your childhood will be more difficult than any child to come before you. I cannot change your circumstances, no matter how much I would like to, but I can offer empathy.

 

I was born an orphan in New York State. At that time, I thought my parents had abandoned me, but now I think perhaps my circumstances may have been as curious as yours. I was in an orphanage until I was eight, and then I bounced through foster homes until college.

 

This book is a journal I used somewhat sparingly from the age of seven through fourteen. It is fairly crude and self-indulgent, but I hope it offers some comfort and allows you to get to know me a bit better.

 

With all my love,

Mom

  
  


December 16, 1989

Ms. Blauch gave me this for my birthday and Christmas. She says I only get one present because my birthday is so close to Christmas but I think she hates me.

 

Henry's bithday brithday birthday is on January 7th and he gets two presents. That is closer to Christmas than mine. She likes Henry  

 

I hate Ms. Blauch too. I hate when she pretends to be nice to me.

 

January 5, 1990

I am going to a foster home, which Jillian says means I will live with a family for about two years. I don't know if I want a family. I think I want a cat husband instead.

 

January 14, 1990

It snowed an awful bunch. My foster parents are nice I think but also boring. They said I was smart though. Maybe they were just being polite. They said I will have two siblings. One of them is another foster child and the other is theirs. I will meet them when they come home from school.

 

I will be sharing with Mindie Mindy, who is 10 and has been with them for two years. It's better than the orphanage where i shared with three other girls. Our brother will be Jerry who is 7.

 

February 23, 1990

I read Matilda today, all of it in one go since it is Saturday. She is really very smart, but she also has special powers. Her parents also didn't want her, even though they kept her. I wish I had special powers. Jerry said my eyes were weird and I am probably cursed.

 

May 4, 1990

We went to Chuck E. Cheese today. I hate how loud it is and the robots are creepy. I bit Jerry because he said I was cursed again. I felt very brave but my foster mom Mrs. Hayman yelled at me and said I was naughty and she was disappointed and I should be grateful to her for all that she has done for me.

 

Jerry did not get in trouble at all for saying I was cursed.

 

I think I should run away.

 

July 18, 1990

I'm being moved to a new foster family. There is Mrs. Minimato, who owns this house and she mostly takes high school kids. They are all much taller than me and I am a little afraid of them. I am sleeping on the couch until a girl called Laquisha goes to college.

 

Mrs. Minimato has an old ginger kitty who is very grumpy. I tried to pet him and he hissed at me.

 

I told her I liked to read and she gave me some books. Most of them are very easy, but I like Through the Looking-Glass which was about a girl named Alice. I am also reading Frankenstein, which she didn't give to me. It is on the tallest shelf in the living room but the couch is easy to climb.

 

August 28, 1990

My room is with Isabella. She is 15, and her hair is dyed green. I think she looks like a fairy creature or a wizard. Perhaps it isn’t dyed at all then. She’s very nice to me, although mostly she seems very sad.

 

I asked her if she was an orphan too. I was thinking maybe I am finally part of a magical orphan story, with Isabella’s hair and my eyes and everything.

 

She said she was kicked out of her parent’s house last year because she is a lesbian. I asked her what it meant and she said it means she likes other girls. I told her I like girls too but she laughed and said probably not the same way.

 

I think she meant she wants to kiss girls. I don’t really want to kiss anyone yet, but if I did it would probably be a girl.

 

I don’t know why her parents would kick her out because of that.

 

September 15, 1990

I am in a new school, and I think my penmanship has improved. We are learning cursive. I think it's very elegant.

 

October 3, 1990

The boys at school called me a witch because of my eyes. I think I prefer that to being cursed and they can believe it all they like. In fairy tales, witches are bad but everyone is scared of them.

 

I want these boys to be afraid of me.

 

April 13, 1996

I haven’t used this diary in years, which is certainly an allowance for space. I also wonder at the charming stationary when I record such a harrowing vision. My nightmare last night was uniquely troubling. I have, of course, experienced night terrors before, but this one was of such startling realness.

 

I was at a ruined castle, over a land marked much like a chess-match, with large tiles of white and black. I had a mother, but she was dead, and I was in a leviathan rage. A rage with more archaic power than I could ever understand, but the feeling is raw inside my veins as I write. My skin was the color of a river rock- black fire burned off my clothes, but did not consume them. I carried twin wands, which felt like black ice in my hands.

 

There were a thousand voices in my mind, arcane voices, raspy whispers from vocal chords strained with lack of use, or perhaps as they came from many mouths, or that they were fumbling over many rows of jagged teeth. The voices channeled their power through me.

 

There was also a boy- he had black hair and buck teeth and he asked me to marry him? I’m not quite sure. I couldn’t respond to him in a way he would understand.

 

I have had disturbing dreams before. I only fear that when I woke, my skin seemed ashen to me, the folds and crevices a little more murky. Perhaps it was merely the symptoms of an overactive imagination, but it felt so startlingly real.

 

I do think a story that took place in a chess-like world would be fascinating. I know it’s been done before to an extent, but I feel it has not been handled as intellectually as it could.

 

I am afraid of sharing either my dream or my story with my friends at school. They would think me peculiar for the first, and an aper of Harry Potter for the other. It is only the one chess game in the Sorcerer's Stone, and my vision would be based around the idea of the players. Hmm...and what about-no, this entry is long enough. I shall continue the rest on a new page.

 

April 23, 1996

I heard voices when I slept again. Similar to that first dream, but clearer, as though they were actively trying to contact me. For some reason, I am not worried about the hoarse whispers beckoning me from beyond the realms of sleep. They seem more concrete to me than much of my life- my homework or books or ever-changing home. (I ought to note that I changed foster homes twice in the past 6 years. I was quite ghastly for awhile. I think I was more content to wallow in my own pity than receive any sort of adulation or kindness. I hope I have moved past this and can peg it down as pubescent folly, although old habits are hard to break.)

 

I had more ideas for my story. I’ve been reading Discworld, and some older books with wizards. I want there to be some sort of wizard university, or research group. Somewhere where they all join to try and expand magic perhaps? There will also be young characters.

 

And always the game.

 

May 7, 1996

They have begun naming themselves. Their voices remind me of the cries of whales, perhaps, or the sound tectonic plates make as they shift against each other. I do not know what this sounds like but it feels so real to me. The voices feel real to me and I fear to name them. I have so much fear.

 

I dreamt about a boy again. This one was different, although it felt tied to the dream of my dead mother, although somehow more distant? We were huddled in his flat, a high-rise surrounded by lava and monsters. Different monsters than the creatures that have been speaking to me. Much less primordial, less sophisticated. They seemed almost like video game monsters.

 

Perhaps this is all manifestations of my lingering disappointment in my lack of sexual identity and distant parents.

 

I should disregard this matter.

 

May 24, 1996

 

School is out and I have more time to think about my story- I am not sure how it will manifest itself, as a novel, perhaps, an epic, a series.

 

I was also thinking about the night about a month ago when my skin turned grey. Or, perhaps I ought to be more reasonable and say the night I imagined my skin turn grey. I’d hate to be the kind of writer who writes themselves in as the protagonist, but I was thinking of a small, grey-skinned child who doesn’t know himself herself themself?

 

The child will be part pawn and part queen, and definitely will be the crucible of the story.

 

I must get back to this later, I am being summoned for dish duty.

 

June 12, 1996

I dreamt about the second boy again. We met in a beautiful, spiraling tower, with stones colored in a rich purple- unnaturally vibrant to not be painted their color. Neither of us cared about the peculiarities of the architecture, infact we were rather at home with it. We danced. I do not think I have ever been happier dancing in my waking moments. He did not ask me to marry him, like the first, but I liked him a great deal more. He also had a puppet with him, a dull creature with glazed eyes and a placid smile. I threw the puppet out the window.

 

The voices say the visions are a gift. It is unclear whether it is a gift from their own interdimensional magnanimity, or perhaps an inherent gift of my own.

 

If it is the latter, why has it not manifested itself earlier? Why have I not been dreaming of distant castles and lost mothers my whole life?

 

October 10, 2008

The second boy is real.

 

His name is Dave Strider, he is a director. Based off his Wikipedia page, we are around the same age.

 

I need to meet him.

612knight10----------


	6. She's gone, she left before you woke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Nikki. I need to look up her social media info for you to get more of her stuff.

***  
  
You find letters tucked into the back of the notebook as well, many crumpled from being read so many times. You're pretty sure who you know they're between, and god, their handwriting is shitty. Well, your mom's is illegible in a fancy sort of doctor way, at least, but dirk's bro's handwriting is just a chicken scratch.

L

 

i get that you want to keep things on the downlow with ancient dear johns but jesus could have told me that in person

im a classy dame leaving the morning after is bad taste yo

telling me to write on a postit note doesnt really seem good form for a writer either

wheres your sense of style

yeah anyway im going to be at new york in a few days

if my assistant doesnt screw up on this fruit basket you should get this message before then

otherwise its not my fucking fault if you don’t have a reply ready for the dropoff

s

 

S,

I can’t exactly delay my flight for morning brunch, as delightful as the thought is. Especially with your fans hounding at my heels. These are very expensive heels, you know. Would you like breakfast at Denny’s next time? Surely the ironic monotone of pancakes and syrup at three AM should suit you.

Postits are useful; do not belittle tiny scraps of sticky paper.       

In all seriousness (if you can muster that), I’ve found an alarming increase in the donations from a certain corporation to a certain political party. The flow of cash isn’t direct either, the witch’s use of subsidiaries is masked enough to be overlooked by the media.

If they cared, that is.

I’ll update you further in the Alps.

 

L

 

P.S. I do hope you enjoy the personal touches, that should make up for last week.

 

l

 

are you serious dennys

thats how youre going to make it up

if i gave you a shitty ringpop proposal give me a percentage for what my odds are

like a 100 fucking angelina yes or fifty jennifer meh

also check the map i included

my people are telling me the big c just bought out this land and a hell of a lot of equipment for nonbaking purposes

unless they plan on cooking up strudels in nevada

how about the big clock next

 

 

s

 

p.s. personal touches do not include grabbing at my hot fanny l. be careful on my merchandise thats the shit that sells


	7. The War is Over and We are Beginning

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

 

TT: So um, I guess it looks like my bro and your mom were

TT: Um.

TG: a thing

TG: yeaaahh

TG: feelin a lil awk rn tbh

TG: hella awk

TG: thats why im shortening words and everything

TG: bcause weird things with genetic ancesties make things even weirder

TG: between idk

TG: the two last surviving human beings in the universe

TG: who might be expected to ya know

TT: Roxy, you’re rambling.

TG: i knoooowww

TG: but

TG: ugh

TG: i mean u dont even like girls rite??

TG: not that there r girls to like in this post-apocalyptic seaworld

TG: ones that arent dead as diddly fuck

TT: I’m twelve, I don’t need to like anyone.

TG: okay yeah but other people are allowed to have feelings

TG: about the only other human being they know

TG: and other people MIGHT happen to feel weird about those feelings now

TG: just maybe those people want comfort

TG: from him

TG: *them

TG: did ya ever think about that

TT: Were I not a twelve year old boy alone in the middle of what used to be Houston, who has no idea what attraction might feel like, I would take you into my arms in a manly fashion, wipe your tears away with gentle fingers and romance the hell out of you with a variety of illegally downloaded redrom movies and enticing soft-assed plushes.

TT: But I am, so I can’t. Them’s the breaks.

TG: thanks

TG: i feel real special

TG: jerk

TG: guess im not gonna tell you the secret code i found in the back of my moms journal

TT: Wait, you found a code too?

TG: what do you mean too

TT: Okay so I didn't want to tell you about this.  
TT: Partially because of what we already discussed above and how I knew it would upset you.  
TT: But I found these floppy disks underneath my bro's piles of useless bullshit.  
TT: And he had this passcode in the middle of his melodramatic rambling about like,  
TT: Your mom.  
TT: It was gross and I didn't need to read it.

TG: moms journal had a page that had a password thing

TG: i think it might be a code

TG: also if u were uncomfortable i def dont wanna know about ur bros floppy disks or whatevs  
TG: werent those from like the 70s??  
TG: i thought they werent that old   
TT: I think he appreciated the vintage.  
TT: The code is 25light413    
TG: im gonna use my mad skillz and get back to u   


You are Roxy Lalonde and you are about to do some coding magic. The passwords are something. Perhaps a link to the past. Maybe you'll finally get to talk to your mom. Your fantastic mom who left all this for you, even though she believed you were only a fiction.  
  
You can prove to her you are real. Everything will be great.  
  
**  
  
Pesterchum files:  
  
-Timestamp 612-K-10  
-413  
-reroute  
-RAD 25  
-reading other servers  
\- 4 users found online  
  
tipsyGnostalgic [TG], would you like to pester UranianUmbra [UU] ? ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse the creative fake coding.  
> Thanks so much for reading! I really enjoyed doing this and would've loved making it even bigger. The briefly mentioned story of Alpha!Dave & Rose is infinitely fascinating to me, and I loved working with different people who felt the same, each bringing their own perspective as we filled in the gaps.


End file.
